Seventh Son
by SimplySwooningK
Summary: AU. Seventh Sons, born to protect their worlds. Ron Weasley is the first Seventh Son to be born in the British Isles for a thousand years. Or so he's been told Cursed with power, his journey is one of discovery and manipulation, trying to find his way through the path he's destined to walk. Rated M for violence, sexual content and language.
1. Chapter 1

_**So this is my latest. With !SuperpoweredRon no less. This is now completely AU as I had originally intended to weave into the JK canon, but after some more thought I decided against that. Note, there will be some underage sexual activity in this story. A lot of our favorites appear and I have some interesting OCs to introduce you to as well.**_

 _ **Happy reading-Kay.**_

 **Seventh Son**

 **Foreword**

" _ **We are either kings among men of the pawns of kings.**_ " **-Lex Luthor**

 **Late 10th** **Century A.D, Scottish Highlands**

Godric Gryffindor swallowed a large goblet of mead in one gulp. This contention with Salazar had to end. If it did not, surely it would mean death and quite possibly the ruination of the magical world in Britannia.

What had once been a happy, harmonious place for all magical children to live and learn and develop into brilliant wizards was now turning into a divided, fractured, competitive disaster.

He had never intended it so, for he knew he bore most of the blame. Houses had been his noble idea. A way to see what the wizards and witches were made of, to determine if they had leaders or alchemists or healers among then. He hadn't meant for this.

The magical community had enough to worry about with the Muggles becoming more and more wary of magic and thinking they were all slaves to the Devil and whatnot. And although they a good Pendragon King on the throne who understood the magical world, he would not be King forever. And if his pernicious sister could not be stayed, the magical world suffer.

All this, Godric knew. He was at somewhat of a loss as to what to do. He had not only the magical community to think of, but his students as well.

One in particular. One who, for better or worse, could change everything.

With the right guidance, he would be the Protector of the Magical world. With the wrong, he would surely be its destruction.

All this was weighing heavily on the aging wizard's mind when his squire, a young lad by the name of Brus came bursting through the door.

"My lord, Master Slytherin is gone!"

Godric leapt out of his chair. "And the boy?"

"Gone, sir," Brus said quickly, for there could have been only one boy who Godric meant.

"Fuck it to hell!" bellowed the fiery Gryffindor. "Wretched fool, I am. I knew he would do this. I knew and I stood back and did nothing. I am damned for this, I am certain. "

"My lord, what shall we do? Shall I get Mistresses Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw?"

Godric paused. "No. No. We tell no one of this."

"But sir, they're bound to notice—,"

"I did not ask for your word on the matter, you little fool. Salazar is gone. And the boy, the boy is dead. Swear it to me. Swear it!"

Brus would not argue with his master. "I swear it, my lord."

"Good." Godric went to his desk and quickly scrawled a note and called for his owl. "Deliver this to Merlin in the Court. To no one else. Go!"

Brus knew that his master had only written two words: _**Find them.**_


	2. Chapter One

**One**

" **Today is born the seventh one...he is the chosen one."-Stephen Percy Harris**

 **March 1, 1980**

Molly Weasley graciously took the hand of her chauffer as she stepped out of one of her family's cars. She could've sent one of the many maids, butlers, assistants elves, and footmen surrounding the Burrow on this particular errand, but she was itching for fresh air.

Why her beloved husband was choosing to be so tetchy about this particular pregnancy, she didn't know. Arthur Weasley always got a bit overprotective when they were expecting, but this was entirely different altogether.

They already had five sons. William Arthur, Charles Everett, Percival Alexander, George Fabian and Frederick Gideon, were the lights of her life. And though she wanted a daughter, another red-headed little boy with round cheeks and Weasley freckles would've suited her quite well.

She was due any moment and everyone had been fussing over far too much for liking, thank you very much.

So, to Diagon Alley she went. Her destination was Flourish and Blotts.

Truthfully, she just wanted a moment's peace. Being the matriarch of a powerful magical family was hard enough. There were events to plan, children to feeds, elves to order around. Add an incoming child to the mix and the whole thing bordered on chaotic.

She didn't want anyone to ask her about how she was feeling, or if she was ready, or what they were naming the new addition. Molly and Arthur, being traditional, wanted it to be a surprise and had chosen not to find out the sex of their baby.

She walked into Flourish and Blotts, looking for a new copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard._

"Molly?" called an eager voice.

She turned to see the firey red hair of young Lily Potter. She'd known Lily a long time as she had used to babysit Bill and Charlie when they were younger. The gossip in the Wizarding World was as strong as anywhere else so it was common knowledge that the Lily was expecting a baby of her own in the summer.

"Lily," Molly smiled at the beaming young lady who clearly a glow.

"Look at you," Lily said. "You're radiant."

"Any day now," Molly said cupping her belly. "And you, you're positively shimmering."

Lily laughed. "Bit longer for me. James and I are excited."

"Oh, you should be. There's nothing like it."

"Any advice?"

"Get as much sleep as you can now, you'll forget what it is later on," Molly said. "Oh, I just thought about it. They'll be at Hogwarts together, won't they?"

Lily beamed as she picked up a small flag with a red and gold "G" emblazoned on it. "Here's hoping they'll be in Gryffindor."

"Cheers to that."

The two women parted ways, and Molly smiled, remembering what it was like to be a new mother and wishing nothing but the best for Lily and James Potter.

She arrived back at the sprawling estate known as the Burrow with a smile. It had been in her husband's family for nearly a thousand generations. No sooner than she had stepped into the foyer, she felt her water breaking.

"Arthur!"

Three and a half hours later, Ronald Billius Weasley of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Weasley was born.

An hour after his grandparents had arrived to fawn over their newest grandson, the Minister of Magic and Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts arrived at their doorstep.

Molly, less than eager to part with her newborn son, held him tightly in her arms when the Minister, Rufus Scrimengeour, asked for a private word with her and Arthur. They stepped into Arthur's study and Molly got the sense that something very strange was going on.

"Dumbledore," Arthur said slowly. "I've a feeling you're not just hear to offer your congratulations."

The aged Headmaster smiled. "Arthur, I wish that that were all. I'm afraid I've news for you. But you're right that you are to be congratulated. Not only do you have a son, but you have a Seventh Son."

The looks of shock that crossed the Weasleys' faces were exactly what Dumbledore had expected. After all, there hadn't been a Seventh Son of a seventh son in the British Isles in nearly 1,000 years, and that was a story that had not ended well.

"That's not possible, Dumbledore," Molly said. "Ronald is our sixth."

Dumbledore nodded. "Your sixth live child, if I may, Molly. But not you're sixth pregnancy?"

Molly colored a bit. She had never thought of that. "I had a miscarriage four years ago," she admitted, lowering her eyes and smiling down at her young son. "But what does that have to do with—,"

"It means that the child you lost was a son," Mr. Scrimengeour interrupted. "Which makes your newborn son a Seventh Son. Because Arthur is a seventh son."

"Arthur only has two brothers," Molly said, not wanting to believe what she was hearing.

"Yes, because his four older brothers died in a Goblin flu epidemic years before Arthur was born," Dumbledore said patiently.

Arthru hadn't said a word. He could think of nothing to say. His son, newly arrived into the world, a Seventh son? He could hardly believe it. Though, it made all the sense in the world.

A Seventh Son was a legendary figure in the Magical world. There were many. Godric Gryffindor himself was said to have been one. Many claimed to be, but this was often proved false. For a true Seventh son had nearly unlimited magical power and powers that were very rare for Wizards in general.

But this power could also prove to be a curse. Most Seventh Sons were often under threat because it was believed that you could harness their magic from them. And often it could be extremely hard for them to control their powers. Not to mention there would always be some dark force attempting to use or exploit them.

"I know this is all a little overwhelming," the Minister continued. "But it's happening. He's the first Seventh Son born in Britain in a thousand years. And he must be trained, he must be protected."

"What if he isn't?" Molly insisted. "What if he has no special abilities? What if he's a...a...a Squib?" she said in near horror. For no magic was decidedly worse than too much magic.

No sooner that the words left her mouth than the blue-eyed baby boy with wisps of red hair already covering his head floated out of her arms towards the ceiling.

"Merlin's Beard," Arthur said when he realized his youngest son was, at five hours of age, flying without a broom, a well-known trait of Seventh Sons.

Dumbledore raised his hand " _Descendo,"_ he said as he slowly brought the baby back into this mother's arms.

Molly held him tightly, not knowing what to do.

"What do we do?" she heard Arthur ask.

The Minister smiled "For nothing, enjoy you're the birth of your son. When it's time, we will know. When he's seven, he'll most likely have to—"

"I believe we've put enough on the Weasleys' shoulders tonight, Rufus," interjected Dumbledore. "There'll be plenty of time to discuss what will need to happen later on."

The Minister nodded and the two soon left the now highly perplexed parents alone. On the one hand, being a Seventh Son was a great honor. It had traditionally meant a life protecting the interests of the magical country one belonged to and the magical world as a whole.

In Britain's modern age, no one could say for certain what role a Seventh Son could or should play. All Molly knew for certain was that her life, for better or worse, was changed forever.

 _ **Please read and review.**_


	3. Chapter 2

_**I am absolutely bowled over by the response to this story. It makes my heart sing. You are all so kind and so amazing to take the time to read this. This is going to be a long story. It's sort of an homage to all the great Romione stories that came before, particularly, "The Price of Love." And as much as I would to jump straight to the Ron and Hermione action, the story has to build first. But it's coming, no worries. But I've got a one-shot down the pipeline and another story that will not disappoint on the action, believe me. Again, please read and review. It literally makes me type faster.**_

 **Two**

 **Your life was ours, which is with you. Go on your journey. We go too.- John Fuller**

News of the astonishing birth spread like fiendfyre. There were hundreds of owls bringing everything from congratulations to prophetic warnings to the Weasleys' door within two days of Ron's birth. Molly's Aunt Muriel was overjoyed and happily telling everyone she knew.

Ron's grandparents, Setimpus and Cedrella had come directly to the family's side and hadn't left yet.

 _The Daily Prophet_ had been seeking an interview, as had the _Quibbler_. Not to mention so many people queuing all around the estate that Molly and Arthur felt compelled to take the whole family to Shell Cottage for some peace and quiet.

Things hadn't been fully explained to the other children yet. Bill was growing more and more curious by the day. Molly and Arthur knew eventually they would have to tell them something, but neither of them was quite sure where to begin.

Not all that Molly and Arthur could read on the subject of Seventh Sons was enough to make feel equal to the task of raising one.

After all, they had four other sons to look after. Despite being well-appointed and holding many numerous outside responsibilities, parenthood by proxy was simply not the Weasleys' preferred method. They knew their youngest son would face special challenges, they wanted to face them with him, but not at the expense of their other sons.

The evening after they arrived at Shell Cottage, they sat up, late in the night discussing what they were to do.

"Molly," Arthur said as he nursed a glass of Scotch. "We don't know the extent of his powers," though Ron was already showing more magic in the first week of his life than the rest of the Weasley children combined. He'd been flying out of his crib in his sleep, making Molly's jewelry float every time she picked him up, and he'd lit the fireplace more than once with a cry or two.

"I know," replied Molly as she looked over in the bassinet where the child in question lay sleeping. Arthur had placed a Sticking Charm on Ron to keep him his crib while he slept. They weren't entirely sure if it would hold, but it didn't matter. Molly had barely let him out of his sight since Dumbledore and Rufus had left.

"But you read the book," Molly continued. Dumbledore had dispatched some reading material to the Weasley family and told them to consider not only the Hogwarts library but his own personal collection at their disposal. "His powers could be innumerable, they could be dangerous, he might not be able to control them—,"

Arthur silenced his wife's rambling by taking her palm to his lips and kissing it gently. "Mollywobbles, love, whatever will happen. We'll help him through it. Dumbledore will help us. And I confess, I didn't read the books as thoroughly as you did. Was there anything useful in there?"

Molly sighed, having a newborn wasn't exactly conducive to what was far from light reading. "Some were quite informative, there's one _Mark The Seventh Son_ , it's meant for children. It'll help us explain it to him. And then there was another filled with nonsense about ancient prophecies and Eros. Sodding rubbish, that one, I'm quite sure."

"Leave it to Dumbledore to hit the nail on the head," Arthur said with a smile.

"What would we do without that man?" Molly said with a sigh, a question she would often repeat.

Before Arthur could reply, two house-elves Apparated into the study. "Delivery for Master and Madame Weasley from Dumbledore," said one as they deposited a pile of scrolls neatly tied and a wooden carrying case filled with potions. One of the elves handed Arthur a note. "Thank you, Nibbly," Arthur said. "And might I remind you that tomorrow starts your week off."

"Of course, Master, Nibbly has been saving his wages. He is taking holiday with Zonk in Brighton. But Nibbly will miss Master and Madame very much."

The elves exited and Arthur read the note. "It's sleeping draught for Ron, supposedly it's strong enough to make sure he doesn't use his powers in his sleep. Apparently, it will only work until he six months old. He'll need a stronger dose then."

He looked over at the bassinet where his son slept. He thought of something his grandfather had always said, that nothing in the magical world happened by chance. That things were meant to be.

For whatever reason, whatever Powers that Were had chosen them. Had chosen Ronald, his Ron be this man, to be this Seventh Son.

For whatever reason, his family had been chosen. Dumbledore had been chosen as well, chosen to watch over Ron, to help them where they needed guidance.

But the baby in question had no idea that Dumbledore would indeed always be watching him. That, in fact, he was watching him right then.

And he was not the only one.

 **7th**

To the majority of the people inside the Weasley household, things went on as normal. It wouldn't have seemed that Ron was garnering any more attention than any other newborn. Molly and Arthur were doing everything they could to present a strong front of normalcy to their children and their household staff.

Bill, who had lived to see four other siblings born, was having none of it and had gone from curious to outright suspicious. He didn't recall flowers, candies, chocolates and scrolls on top of scrolls being brought through the door when the twins were born, and there were two of them.

Charlie, being completely occupied with a book about dragons that his uncle Fabian had sent him, hadn't noticed a thing.

No one could say whether or not Percy noticed, he was far too busy being tormented by Fred and George to take a breath.

Fred and George, miffed by the decrease of attention they were receiving, were throwing five temper tantrums an hour, largely involving putting sharp or living objects in Percy's hair.

The outside world, however was a completely different matter. It had gone, to a coin a phrase, completely mental. There were well-wishers, naysayers, prophets and prophetesses, officials from other Ministries all writing requests to see the baby. Arthur was an inch away from putting a ward around the entire house to repel unknown owls.

Within two weeks, Shell Cottage was quickly growing into a circus and Arthur finally determined that there was nowhere on Planet Earth they could hide, therefore it was time to return the Burrow.

One early morning as the family was preparing to leave, Bill and Arthur were walking along the shore, picking up seashells when an owl arrived from Gilderoy Lockhart himself, requesting to meet "the unprecedented, the sure to be brilliant and magnanimous young Ronald."

All this pomp and circumstance for a seven-pound ball who couldn't hold his head up was too much for poor Bill to comprehend. He was ten years of age, not a sodding idiot. Who on earth did his parents think they were fooling?

"Dad, come off it," he said finally. "What's going on? Why is everyone on about Ron? Is he...cursed or something?"

Arthur chuckled at his son's outrage, noting at that particular moment, how much he sounded like Molly when she was in a temper.

"Son, come here," he said pulling his young son onto his lap as they sat down on the beach, propped up against a big rock, watching the waves crash against the shore.

"Do you remember the story of Godric Gryffindor?" Arthur asked.

Bill laughed. Of course, he did. Gryffindor was his favorite. He was almost ten and couldn't wait until he was at Hogwarts. It had only been his wish to be allowed into Gryffindor since the day he found out what it was. When he articulated this to his father, Arthur smiled.

"Well, do you remember what Gryffindor was, what he was called?"

Bill thought for a moment. "A Seventh Son?"

Arthur smiled. "Yes. Seventh Sons are very rare. In fact, there hasn't been on in England for many, many years. But you see, Ron is a Seventh Son."

Bill's confusion was evident. "But there are only six of us."

"I know. But when you were a little boy, your mother was going to have another little boy...but he died before he ever lived. So there were really six of you already. Ron is the Seventh."

Bill's blue eyes widened, his were just like his father's, like his youngest brother's. All he knew about Seventh Sons were from what he read or heard. It wasn't a such much discussed in England. They hadn't had one in so long. "So, he's gonna have more magic? He's gonna protect England?"

"Right now, we don't know. It's very early and he's only a baby. There's a lot to figure out. What I do know that he'll probably need protection. Dangerous people like powerful things, and there's no question that Ron will be powerful.

"I'm his big brother, I'll protect him," Bill said without a moment's hesitation. He didn't care if there were dangerous people, no one was going to hurt his baby brother if he had anything to say about it.

 _Yup, definitely a Gryffindor,_ Arthur thought with great affection. He wrapped an around his firstborn.

"I'm sure you will. But you must understand, Ron is too young to understand what all this means. We don't understand it yet. But when he does, he will have to help him, protect him, perhaps even from himself. Do you understand, Bill?"

Bill didn't, not fully, but he said he did. "Of course, Dad. I'll be there for him. Always." He knew that what his father was saying was important. He knew his little brother was important. He may not have understood everything then, but his courage wasn't going to waver then. If his brother needed him, he would be there.

From that moment on, Bill was just as protective of his youngest brother as his parents.

Meanwhile, a very pregnant Lily Potter arrived via the fireplace in the parlor of Shell Cottage.

She'd heard from Sirius, her husband's closest friend in the world and a relative of the Weasleys, that all hell had broken loose. Knowing Sirius to be more than a little dramatic (a family trait), she set off to see for herself.

To her utmost bewilderment, she found that Sirius had not exaggerated in the slightest. She'd been brushing the soot from her robes when one look outside the window told her that Sirius had, for once, been serious.

Hell _**had**_ broken loose. Reports from the _Prophet_ were swarming everywhere. They were outside the doors, on the nearby beaches and in the garden. The house-eleves and other servants were doing their best to keep them at bay.

"The Weasleys will not be in to no journalists," came the high-pitched voice of a House-Elf at the front door. "Master and Madame Weasley will not be answering questions. Good day!" He was yelling at Rita Skeeter, Lily recognized her immediately and a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with her pregnancy threatened to overtake her.

She had no intention of being spotted by that toad, not after she wrote a rather unflattering byline about her marriage to James. The house-elf slammed the door with a crack. "Filth and riffraff they are, simpering around for poor young Master," the elf mumbled to himself until he saw Lily.

"Madame Potter," he said with a smile and a flourishing bow. "What can Macey do for you?"

"Macey, I'm looking for Molly,"

"Ah, Madame is in the east library, Macey will take you there. She will be glad to see you, Macey is sure of it."

Molly was in the library, reading a thick book and rocking Ron back and forth in a crib. She looked happy, but slightly flustered.

"Molly," Lily said with a bright smile. "I hear much more than congratulations are in order."

Despite her stress, Molly smiled. "Lily, wonderful to see you," she said. "Nice to see a friendly face in all this mayhem. Thank you, Macey." the House-Elf disappeared with a pop.

"How are you?" Lily asked as she sat up in the chair opposite Molly. The older woman conjured her a cup of tea.

"Not sure really," Molly admitted. "It's all happened so quickly. He's a baby, just a baby."

"Well, I can't imagine a better family to have Britain's first Seventh Son in ten centuries. I mean, can you imagine if he was a Malfoy?"

Molly winced and then chuckled. "Heaven forbid. As if they need a reason to stick their noses any higher in the air."

Lily chuckled dryly. The Malfoy's well-earned reputation of being rather pernicious snobs with a rumored fondness for the Dark Arts definitely preceded them.

Before Lily could respond, an older and rather agitated looking woman entered the room. "Pardon Madame," she said in a voice that barely hid her exasperation. "But Masters Frederick and George are chasing Master Percival around the garden with a giant flobberworm."

Molly sighed. The twins had always been a handful, now with Ron and all the commotion, they were an absolute nightmare.

"I've an idea," Lily said with a glint in her eye. "Why don't I take the boys for a field trip, take them to Diagon Alley, get them some Fortescue's. That way you and Arthur can have a little peace."

Molly could've kissed her. "Oh, bless you, Lily."

From that day forward, Lily was nearly a constant presence at the Weasley household. It wasn't long before her own son, Harry James, was born and she was bringing him along as well.

Naturally, Ron and Harry became playmates. And as Ron's older siblings were made to understand just what was special about their youngest brother, they grew more and more protective, if not slightly envious.

Gradually the hysteria around Ron's birth subsided, and although Dumbledore and Scrimengeour popped up about twice a month and the Aurors never left, things mostly returned to normal. Ron's early underage magic seemed to calm, which was a blessing as Molly was preoccupied by the birth of her daughter Ginevra.

But of course, the calm would not, in fact could not, last forever.

It was May 1983. Three-year-old Ron had flattened twenty acres of forest at the Potters' country estate with a mere wail when he and Harry had been wandering the grounds during a garden party. Fred and George had been given charge of them, but of course, had quickly left them to their own devices.

Dumbledore, also at the party, promptly set the forest right and even more promptly reassured Arthur and Molly that this was perfectly normal and they were to expect such and much, much more.

How reassured the Weasleys were by such a pronouncement, was a matter of debate. Ron had not yet grown spoiled, for Molly and Arthur took great pains to make sure his childhood did not differ greatly from his siblings. They made sure that the Aurors knew to keep a safe distance. They taught him to share and to look out for his younger sister to whom he was already growing closer.

The normalcy the Weasleys worked so hard to provide, however, was rapidly coming to a close.

A year after the forest incident, on a routine trip to Diagon Alley, Ron had caused every building on the street to lift off its foundation and hover for nearly 10 seconds with a fit of sneezing.

Every Wizarding paper from Brighton to Geneva had jumped on that one and it was then Dumbledore decided that Ron needed training.

Less than twelve hours after the eventful trip to Diagon Alley, Molly and Arthur had been summoned to the Dumbledore Estate, a large sprawling property located on an island off the Welsh Coast. They'd brought Ron along as Dumbledore's request.

The property was guarded by every sort of magical protection one could muster. One could never be too careful when one held all the positions that Albus Dumbledore did. Of course, Molly often wondered who wanted to hurt him.

They were quickly escorted by a house-elf who looked older than Dumbledore himself to what clearly was the old Headmaster's study.

He was waiting for them, his kind but searching eyes locked onto them the moment they stepped in the door.

"Molly, Arthur, please sit," he said, a slight tilt in his voice that Molly couldn't recall hearing before. They sat opposite him and waited.

Ron, still cradled in his mother's arms, was dozing off, unaware of all the concern he was raising.

Dumbledore smiled at the little boy. He took a long breath, as if he, the man who always knew what to say, was weighing his words carefully

"As you two can see, the boy's powers are growing quickly. If he can lift Diagon Alley off the ground now, what he'll be able to do when he's five, no one can say. As you know, he's the first British Seventh Son in over a thousand years. But there are many Seventh Sons born all over Europe, the Americas, and Africa. I think it's time we arrange a tutor of sorts for Ronald."

"A tutor?" came the reply of both Weasleys.

"No," Molly said after a beat. "Ron's going to attend Hogwarts like the rest of his family."

"Molly, believe me, I am not suggesting that Ron not attend Hogwarts. He'll go when he's eleven just like everyone else. But he'll need to have much more control of his powers before then. We can't have him lifting Hogwarts off the foundation, now can we? He'll need special training someone that understands what he's going through and how to help him, someone who can him understand what's expected of him."

"Expected of him?" Arthur seemed surprised. "Dumbledore, what exactly _**is**_ expected of him?"

"Very much," Dumbledore said solemnly. "The Laws surrounding Seventh Sons are intact as ever. It's a great responsibility. One he cannot take lightly, one he must be made to understand. His destiny is far greater than any of us can know."

"He's only a baby," Molly protested. "His destiny is up to him. We can't take away his choices. He does not have to be some sort of sacred warrior—,"

"Molly," Arthur said gently. "I don't believe Dumbledore is suggesting that Ron doesn't have a choice. Only that he needs to be aware and prepared to make a choice."

Dumbledore smiled at Arthur. "Of course, right you are, Arthur. Whether Ron chooses to take up the mantle that has been cast his way is entirely up to him. However, he will still need to be trained, he will still need to have control over his powers. Otherwise, it'll be pandemonium. There are forces at work, even as we speak perhaps, that would love nothing more than to exploit him. He'll need guidance, he'll need to know how to defend himself."

Arthur turned to look at Molly for a long moment.

"This tutor, Albus, do you have someone in mind?" he asked finally.

"I do. For years, it has been the International Confederation's policy to ensure that Seventh Sons are provided with the training they require. Ron will be well looked after. We can arrange for it to take place in your home."

"He's only a boy, Albus," Molly protested. She didn't like the thought of Ron having to train or what have you at such a young age.

"Molly, whatever path Ron takes, one thing is certain: his boyhood, perhaps unfairly so, is not long for this world."

Molly had very little time to process that statement as there was a knock on the door. The elderly House-Elf peeked his head in.

"Pardon me, Master Dumbledore, Master and Madame, but Master Gallen has arrived."

"Right on time," Dumbledore said with a smile. "Show him in, Meldy."

The elf nodded and quickly left the room. "Molly, Arthur, there is someone I would like you to meet."

The heavy door opened slowly to reveal a tall, slender man dressed in gray robes. The first thing Molly noticed was his eyes, green like fresh mown grass, piercing like a Seer who had instantly discovered your secrets.

He smiled warmly at Dumbledore who returned in kind. That exchange, reassuring though it should have been, did little to lower the raised hairs on Arthur's neck.

"Molly, Arthur, allow me to introduce Mr. Duncan Gallen, he is a Finnish Seventh Son. I think he will make a fine tutor for Ronald."

"Good morning," he said in a crisp Scandanvian accent as he stepped into the room. "I am delighted and honored to meet the parents of a British Seventh Son. You bring honor to all of magical Europe with such." He walked over to them with such ease and speed that Molly hardy registered his movements until he was there reaching for hand to kiss it.

He firmly clasped Arthur's hand in a strong handshake hand and smiled at them. The two could feel the magic radiating off of him as if he exhaled it with every breath and radiated it with every step he took.

 _Is this what Ron will be?_ Arthur mused as he took in the man with straight blond hair who couldn't have been a day over 35.

"We are very glad to meet you as well," Arthur said once he realized he and Molly had been quiet for too long.

Duncan's eyes locked onto little Ron. "He's a beautiful little boy," he said softly. "I can sense his power as we speak. This one will be strong." He stared long and hard at the boy as if he was trying to sense something.

"Duncan," Dumbledore said in a voice designed to pull his colleague back to the present. "Perhaps you should explain to the Weasleys what exactly your tutoring will entail."

Duncan's eyes widened briefly. "Ah, yes, quite right you are, Dumbledore." Duncan snapped his fingers and Conjured up a chair.

"I don't know how much the two of you know about Seventh Sons," he began, sounding more and more like a teacher with every syllable. "But they are rare, they are powerful and they are potentially dangerous and they are always in danger—,"

He paused when he saw the bewildered expressions on the Weasleys' faces.

"I've given you a fright, haven't I?" he asked with a slight smile. "Apologies. It's a lot to take in, I know. My parents were quite the same when the headmaster of Maaginenkoulu came to seem them," he said fondly referencing the Finnish equivalent of Hogwarts. "I assure you; I understand what you're going through. I also understand what Ron will go through. I have six older brothers, ones that have never fully understood. Like Ron does. I've had to cope with visions and prophecies haunting my dreams, as will Ron."

"Pardon me, Mr. Gallen," Mr. Weasley interrupted. "You speak of as if you know these already. I thought it was impossible to know what form Ron's powers will take."

"To people without the Sight, perhaps," said the wizard without smiling. "All Seventh Sons are Seers. There has never been one without it. So mote it be."

The vase on Dumbledore's desk rattled at Duncan's words. Even a room in one of the most magical houses in existence seemed to tremble at the power radiating from Duncan Gallen.

Molly's skepticism was apparent to everyone, her fear was only apparent to Arthur. Only he noticed the slight tilt in her voice when she next spoke. "Pardon me Mr. Gallen, but I must ask two things. For one, why are you not guarding your own country. I thought that was the solemn duty of a Seventh Son?"

Arthur sucked in a breath, worried that an insult to a Seventh son was some type of magical sacred no-no, but Duncan only smiled. "I can see you are not a woman to be trifled with, Mrs. Weasley. Finland is, shall we say, blessed. There were three Seventh Sons born in the year of my birth, and five born in the decade before that. Suffice to say Finland is in good hands. The kitchen I was born into already had more than enough cooks, so I have dedicated my life to the training of my brothers of Seven. Pardon me, Mrs. Weasley, you said you had two questions."

Molly nodded. "You and Albus speak as if this training is necessary for something more than control, as if Ron needs to be ready for... _ **something**_."

Duncan and Dumbledore exchanged a glance. Dumbledore cleared his throat slowly. "Molly, Arthur, I'll not mince words. Legend and history tell us that Seventh Sons only appear when they are needed. This last millennium, Britain has been in magical peace. But there are many things, Ron's birth included, that tell us that the peace we have known and taken for granted is at an end."

Neither Molly or Arthur could think of a reply to Dumbledore's words. Their world had not been seriously disturbed by major conflict in generations. Occasionally Dark Wizards would wreak a little havoc, but the Aurors saw to them immediately and sent them back into the dark underbelly they frequented.

Pureblood supremacists also stirred up trouble intermittently, but it had been years since they had caused any real damage.

When it became apparent that Molly and Arthur had no words, Duncan took it upon himself to break the silence.

"Mr. And Mrs. Weasley, I know there is nothing I can to make this any easier. You have no reason to trust me, save what Dumbledore tells you. But if you trust me with your son, I will not fail you. I will not fail Ron."

"All right," Arthur said in the voice that immediately reminded everyone in in the room that despite his easygoing manner and kind disposition, he was the Weasley of Weasley. "You may tutor Ronald. But remember this, he is first and foremost a member of the House of Weasley and my son. You do not take him into your hands lightly. Am I understood?"

Duncan now understood that none of the Weasleys were to be trifled with.

"You are very understood, Mr. Weasley. I have never taken this particular duty lightly. A Seventh Son, in the wrong hands, is more than dangerous, it's catastrophic. But from what I can tell, Ron is the best of hands. I'm very glad we're on this journey together."

Ducan smiled down at Ron, wondering if the boy had any inkling of what was to come.

 **7th**

September 3rd, 1990

"Neville, it's getting away," called Ron Weasley to his friend Neville Longbottom as a Golden Snitch buzzed past Neville's head. The two of them along with Ron's closest friend, Harry Potter were whizzing around on their brooms, chasing a Golden Snitch. They were currently at Ollam, the country estate of Harry's family, flying around the gardens while Molly, Lily and Neville's mother, Alice, were planning for an upcoming garden party.

While there was only three of them, not enough to play regular Quidditch, but enough to chase a Snitch for sure.

Besides it was good practice for when they all attending Hogwarts School of Witchraft and Wizardry. All three of them entertained notions of being on the Quidditch team. Harry and Neville, because they both came from long lines of Qudditch players and wanted not to scourge the family legacy. Ron, because it was probably the best thing he could share with his siblings, with his friends.

His early years had not been as carefree as his siblings. While they were tutored at home in arithmetic, English and other basic studies, Ron spent hours learning not only basics but about his powers and all the Seventh Sons that had come before them and their accomplishments. Quidditch, however, was something that had always united him with his siblings and his friends.

Ron's call to attention stirred Neville to action and he sat his broom after the Snitch, eyes fixed on it. Neville sat his broom to follow the whizzing, winged golden ball. It was by now fairly evident to both Ron and Harry that Neville was more cut out for commentary than the actual sport.

Still they cheered him on because they couldn't properly call themselves his mates if they didn't.

Ron was coming up behind Neville with Harry flanking the other side when suddenly he wasn't.

He was still on his broom, but he was no longer in the forest of Harry's house. No, he was somewhere else. Somewhere he didn't recognize. It was grey, it was stone and it was very dark, only dim lanterns lit the room and not very well, in Ron's uneasy opinion.

He looked around anxiously trying to figure out where he was, where he had gone. "Harry! Neville!" He called, though he knew they weren't there. He looked down from his broom and saw a small figure lying on the ground. It looked like a girl, a girl with red hair.

"Ginny!" he cried and he aimed his broom for the figure, racing as fast as he could towards the ground and crashing directly into Neville.

In less than an instant, the sky was crystal blue again, the air was ripe with the smells of pine and acacia, and Harry was screaming for both of them to look out.

But it was too late, Ron had went flying in to Neville and with the horrid sound of crunching wood and frightened yelps, both of them went seesawing towards the ground, unable to get control of their brooms. Harry circled around, trying to see if he could help, all while trying to stay out of the way.

But it didn't matter. The ground came to the rescue as it broke their fall with a loud, resonating crack.

Ron leapt to his feet with very little trouble and winced, he was pretty sure he'd bruised every limb he called his own. Harry raced down beside them.

"Are you two all right?" he asked.

"Sorted, mate" Ron said, trying to sound more unscathed than he felt.

"Ron," came Neville's voice in a weak moan. The two other wizards turned to look at their friend. Two gasps of shock shot through the forest like bullets as they took in the sight.

Blood. Neither Ron or Harry had ever seen so much of it. A deep, jagged gash had opened across Neville's head. It looked like a branch had sliced his head right open.

"Bloody hell," Ron screamed. "Harry, go get help, get your dad, get somebody, help. Get the Aurors! Go!"

Harry, who had been stood stock still only blinked in return.

"Harry, you're the faster flyer, go!" Ron urged. Something in Ron's voice stirred Harry to action and he took off.

Ron crouched besides Neville. "You're all right, mate. You're all right. Harry's dad we'll be here soon. And the Aurors, they're always watching me. They'll fix you right up. They've got healers and all kinds of stuff. You'll be fine. You'll be fine." Ron hoped he sounded reassuring, but in truth his eyes were burring with tears and his heart was thumping as loud as it had ever done. Neville was hurt. Neville was relly hurt and it was all his fault. He didn't know why he'd chosen that very moment to start daydreaming.

Only, he hadn't been daydreaming. He knew he hadn't. It was almost like he'd Apparated to somewhere else, only to reappear right where he was.

But he couldn't think about that right now. All he could think about was helping Neville who looked almost blue.

Ron fought his tears, but the lost the battle. He blubbered a little and then the tears were flowing.

He gripped Neville's hand to tell him to hold on again. But before he could get the words out of his mouth, Neville's head stopped gushing blood. The skin covered over within seconds. Neville sat straight up.

"Bloody hell," Ron said awestruck. He looked around for an Auror, for Duncan for Dumbledore, for Mr. Potter, for anyone who could've done whatever had just happened. But there was no one.

Neville sat up, shaky and disoriented. Their brooms were dangling above them, having gotten caught in a thicket of branches.

"R-Ron," he said slowly. "I think, I think I'm okay."

"But how?" Ron didn't want to cry because of fear, now he wanted to cry because he was confused. "Can you stand?" he asked his friend.

Neville nodded and though he was unsteady, he slowly stood, apparently no worse for the wear. Ron helped him to his feet, trying to brush the leaves off of him, but only succeeding his smearing his robes with blood.

"Did you do that, Ron?" Neville asked, although it seemed more of a statement.

"I...I don't know," Ron stammered, though he had a sinking feeling that he did know.

 _He can heal people?_ Neville's voice asked questioningly.

"Neville, I said I don't know," Ron shot back sharply. But from the look on Neville's blood stained face, Ron suddenly realized that Neville hadn't spoken aloud.

But the two boys didn't have time to worry about that as the adults were now Apparating around them. Alice Longbottom was rushing to her son in a panic.

"Neville! Darling, are you all right? Harry said you took a fall."

"I'm fine, Mum," Neville said as his mother reached out and wrapped him in what was definitely more of a smother than a hug. But Alice could see the blood as could Molly and Lily rushed over to tend to Ron with Harry bringing up the rear.

He saw Neville and stopped in his tracks. "Neville! You're all right, you're not bleeding. What the fu—."

Lily whipped her head around. "Harold James Potter, watch your mouth."

"What happened?" all of them seemed to ask in unison.

"Ron," said Molly reaching out for her son, but Ron pulled away, overwhelmed by the situation and afraid of what would happen if he got too upset, he wrenched his arm from his mother's grasp and ran into the forest.

He didn't know how long or how far he ran. He didn't know if they were coming after them. At that moment, he didn't care. He just wanted to be anywhere but where he was.

When he finally stopped running, he'd reached a large, open meadow. He did the only thing he could think of at that particular moment. He screamed.

He screamed and screamed and screamed until it seemed he would fall down to the ground, which he did.

He didn't want it, he decided. He didn't want to be whatever he was supposed to be. He was afraid, no he was terrified. Fear wasn't in the Seventh Son handbook, that much he was certain.

He just wanted to play Quidditch and go to Howargts like the rest of his siblings. He didn't want visions or to be able to heal people or whatever had happened He just wanted to get sorted into Gryffindor.

Of course, Gryffindor probably didn't accept cowards.

"Ron," a soothing voice called to him. He recognized it immediately. He turned around to see the concerned eyes of his father. Arthur Weasley was still in his Ministry Robes. He'd obviously just popped over from a Wizgamenot session Ron felt even more guilty.

His father was an important man, the head of a very important family. Ron knew that.

"Dad, I'm s—," but before Ron could get out another word, Arthur had scooped up his youngest son off the ground and into his arms.

"You're all right, son," Arthur said softly. "You're all right, aren't you?"

Ron swallowed the lump in his throat. "Dad, I didn't mean to—,"

"I know. Neville's all right. He's fine. Because of you."

"I didn't know…I didn't mean to...," Ron trailed off, not knowing what he wanted to say, only knowing that he never wanted to leave his father's arms.

Arthur placed Ron on the ground. "Why don't we go for a walk, shall we, son?"

Ron wanted nothing more than to go home, but he nodded and took his father's hand.

As they started to walk, Ron cleared his throat. "Dad, I'm sorry you had to come all this way. I know how busy you are."

Ron had sounded as contrite as he could manage but his words seemed to strike his father like a bodkin. He stopped moving and looked down at his son, with something akin to hurt in his eyes.

Finally, after a pregnant, searching pause where Ron had only grown more certain that he would receive a severe scolding, Arthur smiled.

He got on his knees, met Ron's eyes and gently held his shoulders. "Ron, you are my son. I am never too busy for you. Remember that as long as you live. You're a Weasley, first and foremost. Whatever else you are, whatever else you'll be, you are a Weasley."

Ron smiled, his heart and spirit lifting with every word.

"Dad…what if I don't…want to be a Seventh Son?" Ron asked slowly.

Arthur nodded. "Well, I'm not sure you can change it, Ron. Its who you are. You journey is a special one."

"But what if I hurt somebody? What if I can't control it? What if I'm not good enough?"

"Ron, I know you're scared. But that's okay. You will be all right. Your mother and I would like to follow wherever you go, but we know we can't. But know that we are always with you, when you get scared. That's what family is for."

Ron smiled and as he and Arthur walked along the meadow, laughing and joking and Ron soon forgot the day's troubles.

But of course, he was soon reminded. Just as Ron and Arthur were preparing to head back to the estate, they heard a _whoosh_ and a _pop_ , the telltale sign of someone Apparating.

They turned around to see Duncan Gallen standing a few paces away from them.

With concern in his eyes, but a smile on his face he approached them.

"Arthur," he said with a nod and smile to the older man. He turned his green eyes on Ron. "We've had a bit of a day, haven't we?"

Ron lowered his eyes to the ground. "I'm sorry, Duncan."

"Never apologize for your gifts, Ronald," Duncan said, his voice soft as a whisper, and yet somehow resonating more than a thunderstorm. "Your control will come. But now, you didn't crash into Neville on purpose, did you?"

Ron shook his head.

"You left the forest for a moment, long before you ran away?"

Ron nodded again, seemingly incapable of speech.

Duncan nodded. "It is time, then. Arthur, your boy has the Sight. What form it will take is, for the moment, unclear. Visions, prophecies, dreams, we shall wait and see. But that was not all that had happened, was it, Ron?"

Ron turned bright red and gulped.

Duncan turned his attention to Arthur once again. "He also has the Inner Ear, he'll hear the thoughts of others."

Arthur looked down at his son, who's expression seemed to confirm everything that Duncan was saying.

"Can you help him with that?" Arthur trusted Duncan to a point, but one could never be too careful about who they entrusted their offspring with.

Duncan smiled his peculiar smile. "I can. I shall. From this moment on, his training intensifies."

 **7th**

 **August 3rd, 1991**

 _Bill,_

 _How is your first week at Gringotts? Are the goblins nicer once you get to know them? I miss you already. Duncan says I'm learning really fast. I can move all the pictures off the wall and make them float without breaking them._

 _We're going to Ollivander's today to get my wand. Duncan wants me to get it earlier than usual, so I have more time to practice, so I can learn to be careful._

 _Why do I always have to be careful? I mean I know I can do things other people can't, but that's all of us. Duncan says I'll understand someday. He always says that. Sirius and Remus are coming over for dinner and Dumbledore and Mr. Scrimegeour were here last night. They brought me more books to read. They're always bringing me books. Duncan says I have to read them all by next Wednesday_

 _Do you like your new flat? Mum says you could've stayed here. Or she may have been thinking it. I can't tell sometimes. Duncan says I have to work on that. I don't know if I want to know what everyone's thinking all the time. I flew without my broom for fifteen minutes yesterday, which is the longest I've ever done. Can you come and visit soon? I know you just got there but I miss you. So does Ginny. She doesn't say it, but I can tell. And with everyone back at Hogwarts, there's nothing for me to do but study with Duncan._

 _I probably should go and do that now. Write when you can. Send chocolate when you can._

 _Always,_

 _Ron._ Ron Weasley, English Seventh Son, floated his mermaid bone and thunderbird feather quill back into its holder slowly. His telekinesis was the most developed of his extra powers, but he didn't have full control of it yet, a fact that tormented him. His healing abilities seemed to get stronger every day, yet he wasn't quite aware of the extent. He could heal a broken nose without a wand (a fact he had tested out on George), but that was about it.

Of course, he had to work very hard to stay calm. When his emotions were charged whether it was with sadness or excitement, his powers could go haywire, which wasn't good for anyone.

The last time he'd gotten seriously upset he'd conjured up a flame that had nearly engulfed his bedroom, but Morky, his personal valet and house-elf had quickly put it out with a snap of his fingers.

Of course, the fact that nothing had been seriously damaged didn't do anything to com Ron's nerves.

As he learned more control, it always seemed that more was expected of him. Duncan, while always praiseworthy, always made it clear that this was the very least of his potential.

There were times when he wasn't sure he wanted to be able to do anything else. Sure, flying was fun and slightly scary. Being able to move things without having to say "Accio," was pretty cool. But then was the mind reading and the visions. Ron had not yet learned to read people's mind

The visions. Ron would've gladly traded the visions for a case of spattergroit. He'd been having the same three visions his entire life. One was always of Ginny (or he thought it was Ginny) lying on the floor of what would looked like a dungeon. The second was snow in a graveyard. Nothing else, just snow in a graveyard.

The third was the one that frightened him the most. He saw himself looking in a mirror, but a face that was not his own staring back at him. The face was never very clear. It was so distorted that Ron couldn't really make out any of the features, except that he had black hair. That was how Ron knew it wasn't his own reflection.

The fourth, Ron was quite certain, made absolutely no sense as it was a walking stack of books. It was always outside and it looked like Diagon alley, but there was a stack of books with a pair of feet attached to it.

.He had no idea of what to make of his visions, but per Duncan's instructions, he chronicled every last one of them in a notebook. Duncan had often told him that the most important parts of visions were what often seemed to be unimportant, like colors and temperatures. And deciphering his visions was a huge part of his training, apparently.

What he was training for, he had never been quite sure of He knew that he was going to have special duties or something. _If he chose,_ he added to himself. Duncan and Dumbledore and Mr. Scrimengeour were always quick to preface his duties with that particular caveat. But Ron still had had no idea what "special duties" meant.

As far as he could tell, Seventh Sons weren't the busiest set in the magical world. At least, not in Europe.

He knew that he was supposed to protect Britain's magical world from danger, but as far as he could tell, there wasn't much danger to speak of. Sure, there were dark wizards, but there always had been and the Aurors took care of them. He knew that from all the stories Mad-Eye Moody, a famous Auror and one of his godfathers, told him.

Still, just what he was supposed to do had never been fully explained to him. Ron sometimes wondered if the adults around him even knew. He had a feeling that any of them did know, it was Duncan.

He hadn't yet mastered hearing people's thoughts, but he got the feeling that Duncan was purposefully blocking him which only made him believe that Duncan knew more than he was telling.

Now with his first year of Hogwarts, approaching dread had set in like summertime heat. Everyone would think he was something he didn't think he was. Everyone would think he was exceptional.

Besides, if everyone expected so much of him, part of him was worried he would never quite be able to live up to it. Not that he ever said that out loud. But from everything he had ever read or been told about Seventh Sons, they were amazing. No, they were bloody wicked.

Godric Gryffindor had fought off twenty Dementors with the strongest _Expecto Patronum_ on record. Pierre Costeau, a French Seventh Son had saved twenty families from Giants using Wandless Magic by himself. Rick Collin, the first Seventh Son from America had fought five dark wizards in a wizard's duel to keep them from an ancient magical relic that apparently could've ended life as they knew it.

Obviously, they hadn't been scared of anything, least of all failing.

Duncan often said that failure wasn't an option, wasn't even a possibility, but Ron had never quite worked out if that was supposed to be reassuring or scary. He had never quite worked out whether Duncan's presence itself was supposed to be reassuring or scary. On the one hand, he had someone who understood what he was going through. On the other, Ron had lately gotten the feeling that Duncan wasn't completely happy with being a teacher of Seventh Sons.

And Ron knew that his tutor would only give him more to do now that he was going to Hogwarts. Ron had wanted nothing more than to go to Hogwarts his entire life. But now, it was less than thirty days away. And everyone would be looking at him, expecting him to be able to do amazing things.

Now with Bill having moved out, Ron couldn't help but feeling slightly bluer than normal.

But he didn't have time to feel blue. Morky knocked on his door and announced it was time to go.

Usually, trips to Diagon Alley were a source of delight to Ron. It meant new brooms or at the very least, Fortescue's.

But this, he knew was no ordinary trip. They were going far earlier than they ever did. The sun was barely peaking over the clouds when the car the Ministry had provided for them rolled into the Burrow's drive.. Extra Aurors were present simply because no one could really be certain of what would happen when Ron got his wand.

Ron watched from his bedroom window as the Aurors, tall and striking, all whispered to one another, waiting for his family to present themselves.

Ron thought about the way his brothers and parents talked about the moment when they first held their wands. They all talked about as if they had finally found a limb they didn't know they were missing.

He wished Bill were there. But Bill was in Egypt. His parents and Duncan were all going to accompany him to the wand shop.

Finally when Ron knew he couldn't hide any longer, he made his way downstairs. Duncan was already there, chatting quietly with Ron's parents.

"I'm ready," Ron said with more eagerness than he actually felt.

His parents beamed at him. Though they had watched five sons get their wands already, they had been waiting for this moment a long time.

"Good," Duncan said before Arthur and Molly could respond. "It's time to go."

Duncan blinked and the solid applewood doors of the Burrow opened. Arthur rolled his eyes, he had always thought Duncan was something of an show-off.

They were all piling into the car when they heard what sounded like a broom and a yell.

"Wait, wait, wait for me!" cried the unmistakable voice of Harry Potter. He was racing down the lane on his broom, black hair sticking every which way.

Ron poked his head out of the car. "Harry, mate, what are you doing here?" he asked.

"Coming with you, of course," Harry said, not even asking for permission as he barged his way into the car.

"Harry!" came the incredulous, scolding tone of Molly Weasley. "What on earth are you doing out of bed at this hour? Your mother will have your head."

Harry blushed slightly. "Mum will understand," he said sofltly. "He's my best mate."

Molly couldn't help but smile at that, though she'd be owling Lily immediately to let her know that her mischievous son was quite all right.

Ron was trying hard not to show it, but he was over the moon that Harry was there. Something told him that he wanted his closest friend in the world to be there when he got his wand.

And with that, they were off.

When they arrived, most of Diagon alley was still closed. Knockturn Alley, of course. Practitioners of the Dark Arts liked to get their business done without a lot of witnesses.

They made their way to Ollivander's where they found the wandmaker outside of his shop.

"Ollivander," Duncan said with a smile, approaching the older man quickly. "It's good to see you."

Ollivander nodded cordially at Duncan, but quickly moved past him to approach the Weasleys. He bowed to them.

"A privilege and an honor," he told them with a quiver of emotion in his voice. "Truly a privilege and an honor," he said again taking a long glance at Ron, who had suddenly wanted nothing more than to hide behind his mother's giant pocketbook.

Something about Ollivander put Ron on edge, almost like his earliest memories of Duncan.

"Mr. Ollivander, we're just happy to be here," Arthur said with a smile which the famed wandmaker returned.

"As am I, Master Weasley. As am I. I know you would all like to be a part of this moment, but I think it's best that I go into the shop with Ron...alone. The wand chooses the wizard and with all of these wizards around, it may get a little haywire."

Everyone looked surprised, but before anyone could protest, Ron had taken Ollivander's quickly extended hand and was entering the shop, leaving his parents, his best friend and his mentor to watch from outside.

Once the heavy door closed behind them, Ollivander turned to the young boy and appraised him. "Something told you to come with me, did it not?"

Ron nodded. He didn't know what it was, but something told him to trust Ollivander, that the man knew what he was talking about.

"Ronald, there is no amount of galleons that can buy and no spell that conjure that instinct. Guard it with your life."

The shop owner quickly let go of Ronald, flitted across to the room with much more agility than his age and appearance would've granted and hopped up on a ladder.

"Now, we need to find you a wand. Do you know the last seventh son that passed through the doors of Ollivander's was—well, that's a story for another time. But I never thought I would see the day, never, never." He disaapeared into parts unknown leaving a slightly overwhelmed Ron in the middle of the shop, flustered, nervous and more excited than he'd ever been before.

He was going to get his own wand. He was finally getting his own wand. It wasn't going to be like using Bill's or the few time when Duncan let him hold his wand. This wand, whichever chose him, would be his.

Duncan had given him a very large book to read about wandlore in anticipation of this moment. Ron had read very little of it, but what he did gather was that some wands were very loyal, some were not. And the wands of Seventh Sons were something altogether different.

Ron looked around the store, awestruck at the shelves and shelves and shelves and shelves. They really did seem to go on forever. His entire family since long before him had gotten their wands in this very store.

But before he could think on it any longer, Ollivander came back to the front of the store, his arms loaded with boxes and Ron spotted at least fifteen more floating behind him.

"These are the wands that will you suit you, I think," he opened a box and pulled out a rounded, black wand. "Hawthorn, 12½ inches, unicorn hair." He extended into Ron's waiting hands. "Give it a wave."

Ron gripped the wand and though he felt nothing special, he did as he was told. In less than a moment, he found himself ducking for cover as all the glass in the splintered around him, and went flying into a million pieces.

He dropped the wand quickly and as he stood, an apologetic wince on his face, the glass slowly began to right itself until there was not a cracked vase in the room.

"Remarkable," Ollivander said as he rose from his crouched position. "But definitely not the wand for you. Let's try this, shall we? Applewood, ten inches, dragon heartstring, swishy. Very good for dueling."

Ron was more than a little reluctant to try again, but he knew he had to. But the fire that came roaring from the tip of the wand when he touched it assured him that particular wand was definitely not the one for him.

Neither was the 8 inch, alder and phoenix feather, or the 10 inch ash and unicorn hair.

Soon Ron had gone through 57 wands, each wrecking more and more havoc on the wand store, until Ron was almost convinced that no wand wanted him.

Was it possible the wands feared him? He remembered something in the book about wands not bonding with wizards that they viewed as too powerful. Something about knowing that power was more corrupting than the darkest magic. The thought made him shudder, it also made him even more confused.

Even Ollivander looked perplexed. "I thought sure that...well no matter," he muttered to himself. And then a thought seemed to strike him. He went stock still for a moment. "I wonder," he whispered softly.

"You wonder?" Ron asked as he dusted off another chunk of plaster from the roof that the 9 inch, yew and dragon heartstring had caused the moment he touched it.

"Come with me, Ron," Ollivander said as he flitted into the back of the stop, leaving Ron to hurry after him.

The shelves really did go on forever as it seemed at least half an hour before they reached the back of the shop.

And just when Ron was ready to catch his breath, Ollivander whispered something and the floor began to move. A staircase, winding and with no apparent end appeared and Ollivander wasted no time racing down it.

Ron, longing for a sandwich, prayed that there was food at wherever they were going as he sighed and followed after Ollivander. He wondered what his parents were thinking. He was sure this was longer than he'd ever been at Ollivander's, probably longer than anyone.

"Excuse me, Mr. Ollivander," Ron said as he followed behind him. "It is possible that I don't have a wand—,"

"Nonsense, Ronald. The wand chooses the wizard, that much is certain," Ollivander said gaily. He seemed to grow more excited by the moment. Clearly, he knew something Ron did not.

When they finally descended the staircase, Ron was even more baffled. He couldn't see a thing. It was completely dark. Blackness eneveloped the whole room.

" _Lumos maxima,_ " came Ollivander's voice and a thousand wands lit up the room, like floating torches to reveal more shelves. But these were different. They were very old, Ron could tell but they seemed almost...alive. Each was painted a different color, some were dark blue, others fiery reds and the designs on their sides almost looked like faces They floated, and they made a noise, almost as if they were breathing, or sleeping.

"Welcome to my collection, Ron," Ollivander said. "These are the rarest wands ever made. Used by some of the greatest wizards that ever lived. And I believe I have just the thing for you...and if I'm right, Merlin, what it will mean."

Ron wondered what was going on in Ollivander's head. He suddenly doubted if he could read minds at all because he hadn't the foggiest clue what was Ollivander was on about.

"Wait here," Ollivander said curtly and disappeared to the back of the room. There were banging and clanging and screeching, almost as if he was fighting with a grindylow...and the grindylow was bringing home the win.

But then Ollivander reappeared, seemingly unscathed and holding a large, box that seemed to be made out of glass.

He conjured up a chair and motioned hastily for Ron to sit as he conjured up one for himself as well. The wands seem to dim as Ollivander gently put the box down between and Ron's eyes with his own.

"My boy, has anyone ever told you the story of Almec Gryffindor?"

Ron shook his head. He had never heard the name.

Ollivander's eyes lit up with glee, the way a child's did when they had a secret no one else knew about. "Almec was the firstborn son of Godric himself by this third wife, Eleia. You see, old Gryffindor had a vision that he was going to have a son. He was so overjoyed because he already had eleven daughters and was incredibly anxious for an heir. He had great ideas and expectations for his son. So much so that he made his son a wand. This wand, Ron," Ollivander said grasping the box even tighter. "The only wand of its kind. The only wand known to have a braided core."

"A braided core?" came Ron's mesmerized query.

"Yes, the core is four strands: dragon heartstring, for Gryffindor hoped his son would be powerful and unafraid of force when necessary, unicorn hair, for Gryffindor wanted his son to be loyal and good at heart, phoenix tailfeather, as it was not only the core of his own wand but also a wand that would act in the best interest of its master, and thestral hair, for any son of Gryffindor could not be afraid of death. It is also the only wand to be made out of four different types of wood, blackthorn, alder, cedar and Elder. A wand made for the heir of Gryffindor," and wit that Ollivander produced the most ornate wand Ron had ever seen.

It was painted yellow, Gryffindor yellow to be exact, and studded with seven rubies or what Ron thought was rubies.

Ollivander held the wand tightly and as he spun it around slowly letting the light from the wands surrounding fall upon

the gems, as if the wand was the centerpiece of a chandelier.

Ron was absolutely enthralled. "Wicked."

"It was wicked, indeed, especially for Gryffindor. When his son Almec was born, Gryffindor placed the wand in his crib, trying to instill loyalty between the two from an early age. Alas, it was not to be. Almec would never cast a spell with this wand or any wand. Despite being born of two very old and very powerful magical lineages, the boy was a Squib. Completely unmagical. Gryffindor, of course, fell into despair and blamed his wife. But it was not her fault or anyone's fault. Gryffindor had five more sons, and though they were magical, the wand would not choose them. Finally his seventh son was born. The world waited on baited breath because the seventh son of a Seventh Son was bound to be one of the most magical creatures that ever lived. And indeed, Callister Gryffindor was magical. Very magical. He was said to be quite powerful from the moment he was born. But still, the wand did not choose him and he died in a goblin flu epidemic three days before his fourteenth birthday. Fiery being Gryffindor's natural disposition, he raged for weeks in anger and grief cursing the gods, his own magic and everything else he could think of. He rushed away from Godric's Hollow with this wand and he enchanted it, saying that it would take no master until the Heir of Gryffindor truly arrived. He brought it back and for a while he was determiined to find his heir. and once he thought he did, but it went to nothing. Finally, he gave up, and with some calmness that he was not known to possess, he wrote a letter writing that he would never meet his heir, that the heir was forthcoming. Convinced it would eventually belong to one of his descendants, he gave it to my ancestor, Garod Ollivander and told him to guard with his life. He said it would be obvious when his true heir arrived. After his death, his sons were furious and searched high and low for the wand, but none ever thought to ask Garod Ollivander. Now I'll tell you a story that you already know. Galena Gryffindor, Godric's youngest daughter grew into a great beauty and she fell in love with..."

"Veron Weasley," Ron said almost immediately. AFter all his family was very proud of their Gryffindor lineage. Although, Ron had known nothing of the history lesson Ollivander had just given him.

"A Seventh Son born into a family descended from Gryffindorr," Ollivander's voice had turned rhapsodic again. "Who better for Godric's heir?"

Ron was now baffled. "But I'm not even in Gryffindor. I haven't been sorted yet."

"The wand chooses the wizard, Ronald. Sorted or not, there's only one way to know if this wand is for you."

Ollivander extended the wand to Ron's trembling hand. Ron's apprehension was apparent by the loud thumping of his heart. He wasn't sure what he was more terrifed of, being the heir of Gryffindor or not.

He reached for the wand, not knowing what he would feel or if he would feel anything. His fingers grasped the smooth wooden base of the wand and for a moment, he felt nothing. He was about to voice his disappointment and hide his relief when he felt a jolt of energy surge through him. He suddeny felt as if arm has grown longer, stronger more powerful. He suddenly felt as if the wand was inside his brain, his memories, his thoughts. He could have almost sworn he heard the slightest whisper of a unknown, but somehow familiar voice calling his name.

There was no doubt to entertain. This was clearly his wand.

"Whoa," was all he said as he looked as his reflection in one of the rubies. His reflection winked back at him.

"Merlin's beard!" Ollivander said with a smile. "I was right. I knew I was right. Ron, I don't know what you will accomplish in your life, but I know this much no one destined for the mundane could ever take ownership of the wand. we can expect great things from you, Mr. Weasley. Great things indeed."

Ron, although excited about his wand, felt a certain amount of trepidation. the sinking feeling that he would eventually let everyone down. What did being the heir of Gryffindor even mean?

Of course, he would have plenty of time to think about that later. At the moment, he had to get back to his parents and Harry.

As he followed Garrick Ollivander out of the secret chamber and back into the main store, he wondered what exactly he would and should tell the crowd who was eagerly waiting for him. The whole truth seemed necessary, but terrifying.

If only he knew what it meant, Heir of Gryffindor. If only he knew what being a Seventh Son really meant. He wished Duncan would introduce him to Seventh Sons who actually did their jobs. Duncan had been a part of his life for as long as he could remember, and he was still the only Seventh Son he'd ever met.

Ron was still lost in his thoughts and clutching his brand new wand when he emerged from Ollivander's shop and saw the eager faces of his parents and best friend awaiting.

Before Ron could utter a word, Ollivander beamed down at the boy and began to rapidly explain the highly unusual circumstances surrounding Ron's wand.

The surprise, bewilderment and delight crossed everyone's faces in quick succession. But Ollivander quickly brought the discussion back to more serious ground.

"I fear this should not be made common knowledge. there are descendants of Gryffindor's sons who have been looking for that wand for generations. Caution cannot be emphasized enough."

"You may depend upon it, Mr. Ollivander," said Arthur looking thoughtfully at his son. "We will be sure to keep it a private matter," he added giving a pointed glance in Harry's direction.

Ollivander nodded and shook hands with all the adults, patted Harry on the head and squeezed Ron's shoulders firmly and took his leave.

"Well," Molly said after a beat. "It's a lot to take in."

"It is," agreed Arthur. "Ron, Harry, why don't you and run and get some Fortescue's. We'll meet you at Flourish and Blotts in an hour."

Ron and Harry nodded and headed to the ice cream shop.

Harry had been silent since Ron had came out of the shop, but he finally found his voice.

"So Heir of Gryffindor, huh? I guess we know what House you'll be in," he said with a wry grin.

Ron turned to Harry to reply as they were turning a corner, but before he could get a sound out of his mouth, he crashed into a walking stack of books.

The books went flying and Ron fell in a heap.

"Watch it!" came the voice of the shoes of the bookcase and Ron realized that the walking bookcase was a girl, a girl with very bushy, very brown hair.

 _ **Sorry for the delay. I went back and forth with this chapter a lot and then when I was editing it, my laptop died and I had to get a new one. If this chapter seems a little disjointed, that's why. But now that things have calmed down for me, I am going to try and update each of my stories twice a month. Xoxo Please read and review.-Kay.**_


	4. Chapter 4

**_Another update from me, I can hardly believe it myself. I promise I will try not to have you all waiting 6 months for the next one and I hope to make up for the lack of Ron and Hermione in the latest chapter of my other fic with copious amounts here. Of course, nothing too steamy yet. They're only 11. But onwards and upwards._**

 ** _Also I cannot tell you how much the response to this story has meant to me. I read all the well thought-out, passionate comments and it makes my heart soar. You guys are best. XOXO_**

 **Three**

 **"** ** _Does the walker choose the path or the path the walker?"-Garth Nix._**

 **Scottish Highlands, 10** **th** **Century A.D.**

Gryffindor cursed his fate. Clearly, the gods had set him for up failure. He did not know who'd he cursed, hexed or disgraced, but clearly he should not have done so.

His sons, none of them had proven to be his heir, not his true heir. And now his beloved Callister, The Son That Should've Been, was dead. He'd known pain like this before, though it hadn't been as personal.

The other one, the one boy who could've been the true holder of the wand was lost forever, gone where no one could follow him.

He was quite inconsolable, but his temperament could not bear despondency. His son had been laid to rest nearly eighteen days earlier. He had not left his chamber since. He spent all his time making potions, inventing new incantations, any and everything he to avoid reflecting on the miserable truth.

The wand, the wand that he had worked on so carefully, that he had poured so much of his soul, his blood, his magic into was now locked away in a box, taunting him.

It seemed that the wand did not think anyone in his lineage worthy of it. The irony was quite bitter and hard to swallow, but it was not lost on Godric.

He lit a candle and prepared to write a letter to his eldest son, Almec.

Despite the wand not choosing Almec, he was very much his father's son and was currently in London purchasing property for his upcoming marriage. Godric wanted to make sure that whatever property he chose in that overgrown weed of a locale, he would have some seclusion from the Muggles.

He had to be a father despite his disappointments, and like with everything he did, he went at with his usual fiery, lively disposition.

He was finishing the letter when his owl, Jaxner delivered a letter in an all too familiar script. He nearly fell out of his chair when he recognized it. That note was clearly written in the hand of Slytherin.

"Damn him!" bellowed Gryffindor as he snatched the letter from Jaxner's beak.

He read over the letter with hurried enthusiasm and dread, his eyes quickly skimming over Slytherin's usual arrogant taunts and menaces.

As usual, his old friend turned foe gave nothing away about his locations or plans. The letter was completely devoid of scent or wear, anything that would give a clue as to where its slippery author was slithering around.

In any event, there was only one phrase in the whole letter worthy of any consideration: _Present thyself at the graveyard in the Hollow tomorrow fortnight. Bring the wand or the boy dies._

Godric Gryffindor had a choice to make. He didn't honestly believe that Salazar would kill the boy, no the boy was far too valuable for that. Then again, no one could ever say for certain what Slytherin would or would not do.

His heart heavy and his mind even more distressed, he took up his quill again, barely knowing where to start, but knowing he could not face it alone.

 **7** **th**

 **Diagon Alley, Late 20** **th** **Century**

Hermione Granger was very aware of the seminal moments in her life thus far.

She could recall with ease the moment that she had discovered her magical ability. She had been four years old and had been attempting to get a thesaurus down from a high shelf in her father's library. It had been, of course, out of her grasp, but the book floated down to her on its own.

Always a highly rational child, she knew that there was something amiss about this. Her efforts to make her parents aware of the fact however had fallen short. They dismissed it as their only daughter having an overactive imagination.

That would continue to be their rationale of choice to explain away the series of bizarre incidents that marked Hermione's early childhood. While in nursery school, Hermione had insisted that her drawing of a butterfly had come to life and flown out the window. Once in while summering in Paris, Hermione had insisted that the Eiffel tower was floating.

Similar incidents would leave Hermione rather friendless throughout her early school years with her classmates labelling her everything from an attention seeker to a freak.

Unable to connect with children her age and unable to make her parents understand, Hermione withdrew into her main solace: books.

Books had always been her constant companions, and through her love of books and knowledge, she developed the esteem and praise of her teachers.

Being rejected by her peers and misunderstood by her parents led her to naturally crave and value the praise her teachers bestowed upon her with a dogged veracity that would come to mark all her pursuits.

Whatever Hermione did, she had to do it best. Otherwise, her teachers would think less of her.

Of course, things had turned drastically when her letter from Hogwarts arrived. So much then made sense. She was not a freak or merely prone to flights of fancy. She was a witch. An actual witch.

Her parents, though initially skeptical, had always been of the highly accepting sort. To own the truth, they were actually relieved because they had begun to worry if their daughter's overactive imagination was an underlying cause of something much, much worse.

But alas, no mental conditions no speak of, only magical ones.

For the last several months, Hermione had been engrossing herself in everything she could about Hogwarts. She wanted to know everything, she wanted to learn everything, she wanted to do everything.

She'd already been reading up on the history of Hogwarts and the history of the magical world in general. She'd read about the Goblin Wars, the actual truth of the Dark ages, and everything she could find about the most famous and powerful witches.

She had now decided to turn to reading things about spells and wand technique as well her actual coursework for the first semester. So on this particular morning, she'd dragged her parents out of bed as she wanted to get to Diagon Alley as early as possible.

She had just finished collecting all the books she wanted to purchase. Always being highly rational as well as highly impatient, she did not want to make two trips. So before entering Flourish & Blotts, she'd calculated the exact route she needed to take including the number of steps and paces she would need in order to get back to her parents without incident.

She was certain she could accomplish it without incident.

But as Hermione was soon to learn, in the Wizards' world, you could never be truly certain of anything.

 **7th**

Harry Potter was trying very hard not to laugh at the humorous scene in front of him. Ron had been doing his very best to apologize to the girl he'd mown down in the Middle of Diagon Alley.

The girl, however, was not receptive, to say the least. She'd been berating Ron for the past five minutes and Ron, completely taken aback, was ready to respond in kind.

The girl looked about their age, with busy brown hair, rather large teeth and an expression that was nearly murderous as she sat, propped up on her knees carefully examining her stack of books for any signs of damage.

"You could've killed me, you know?" she said for the fourth time in irritation as she rebuffed the latest of Ron's attempts to help her to her feet. "Why don't you watch where you going?"

Ron's ears turned bright red. " ** _Me_** , watch where ** _I'm_** going?" he cried. "You're the one walking down the street with a stack of books taller than you! You can't even ** _see_** where you're going."

Harry bit his lips even harder; he had never seen his friend so indignant

The girl however, was having none of Ron's logic. "I'll have you know that I counted the steps and the route I had to take to carry all my books back to my mother and father without incident in one trip. I would've pulled it off if you hadn't got in my way."

Ron's jaw dropped. He turned to Harry and his face clearly said _Mental_.

"You're mad," he said, nearly awestruck by her reasoning. "Who carts a hundred bloody books in one trip?"

"Someone who believes they're surrounded by people who use their eyes," the girl spat back.

Ron's ire was obvious. He couldn't remember being this angry at someone ever. He picked a book that had landed by his shoes, searching for a retort that would stop this girl in her tracks. " _Standard Book of Spells?"_ he asked, picking the book. She grabbed it from him rather ungraciously. "Why are you carting this anyway? Don't you have one in your house?" Every witch and wizard Ron knew had one of those on the mantle.

The girl didn't respond right away. Her brown eyes filled with something other than anger. "No," she said in a much softer tone. "I don't have any of these in my house."

Ron bit his lip as embarrassment and understanding flushed over him in equal measure. The girl was probably muggle-born. And Ron had been taught better to disparage anyone because of their "blood standing". His entire family was disgusted by the very notion of pureblood superiority, despite being one of the oldest, purest families around.

"Oh," he said quickly. He stared at his shoes for a moment, cheeks as red as his hair.

An awkward pause followed in which Ron glanced at Harry as if trying to figure out what to do next. Harry didn't know what to do either, but it was clear in the moments that followed that he and Ron were not of the same mind on the matter.

"Um, would you like to come to Fortescue's with us?" Harry offered. It was honestly the best he could think of in the moment. Ron's jaw hit the floor. Clearly not his idea of a good time.

"Fortescue's?" the girl's face seemed to light up. "I'd love to. I've got to drop off my books first." And with that, she scurried off around a corner.

"What did you do that for?" Ron asked Harry. "She's mental."

Harry shrugged. "Well, you did run her over."

"She's the one walking down the street with a stack of books ten feet high,"

"Well," Harry said noncommittally. "We'll just run off once we get our ice cream. She's not going to follow us."

Ron hoped Harry was right, but he had a sinking feeling that he wasn't. He didn't even know the girl's name. He wasn't quite sure when he wanted to.

Before Ron could think of anything else to say, the girl was back falling into step beside them as they headed to Fortescue's. She instantly began talking, to the point where Ron was convinced that she must've gotten in the way of an anti-silence jinx.

"I've been wanting to try to Fortescue's since I read about it. But I haven't had time, there's been so much reading to do. It's supposed to have the best ice cream in all of Britain. At least that's what it says in _A Comprehensive Guide of Diagon Alley._ And I've been so busy reading that that I had forgotten to pick up the rest of my books, not to mention my cauldron and my wand and I still have to get more books, because I want to get a jump start on the reading for next year, but I've been dying to try the Raspberry Sparkle. It's jinxed to look like wand sparks when you eat it."

Ron and Harry's eyes widened and their jaws froze in unabashed wonder as they watched the girl talk incessantly about all the ice cream flavors she wanted to try, all the books she had yet to read and how excited she was to be attending Hogwarts. After five minutes (or to Ron's mind, five lifetimes) had passed, the girl stopped talking and inhaled a long breath. Ron was in the middle of a deep exhalation of relief, when she began speaking again.

When they at last reached the entryway of Fortescue's, the girl gasped. "Oh, I've completely forgotten my manners," she said extending her hand. "I'm Hermione Granger."

Ron didn't know whether to shake her hand or bolt off running, but Harry seemed more well-mannered and proper than Ron had ever seen him in his life.

"Harry Potter," he said effortlessly as he shook Hermione Granger's hand.

Hermione's big brown eyes widened again. Harry noticed that they did that a lot. "Potter? Are you related to Fleamont Potter?"

"He's my grandfather," Harry said slowly, a blush spreading across his cheeks. Did this girl know everything about everything and everyone?

"I read about all his inventions. Does his hair potion work?"

Hermione's eyes wandered up to Harry's spiky black hair, which was only tamed when his mother used a bottle of Sleak-Eazy, so he merely shrugged noncommittally. But wanting to get the attention off of himself, before this girl bombarded him questions about his entire family tree, he made quick work of introductions. He figured that anything if anything would silence Hermione, it was meeting Ron.

"And this is my best friend, Ron Weasley," Harry grinning at the ginger boy who looked absolutely livid.

Hermione Granger was, for the only time in Ron's brief acquaintance with her, silent. Her mouth gaped open as her eyes turned to look at Ron. She was obviously shocked and couldn't seem to think of anything to say.

Her silence, however, did not last as long as her awe. "You're Ron Weasley?" she said in an excited whisper. "You're a Seventh Son?"

Ron, who had long been sheltered from this type of reaction, nodded shortly. "I am," he said as he silently plotted where he was going to stuff Harry's body. Now they would never get rid of her

Hermione was clearly amazed. "I've read about you. You're the first British Seventh Son in a millennium!"

Ron turned red again and prayed that no one else was listening. He didn't want the whole of the Alley bombarding him.

"Yes," Ron said briefly. "Shall we go in?" the door seemed to open of its own accord and Ron wasn't quite sure if he had done that, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was they could get inside and possibly get away from Hermione Granger.

It was still fairly early in the day as they'd gone to Ollivander's very early in the morning, so the normally buzzing shop was very, very quiet.

Ron thought it was odd that the adults were letting them get ice cream that early but he surmised that they probably wanted to talk about him without him knowing it.

Mr. Fortescue smiled as Ron and Harry were already very well-known to him. "Young Master Ronald and Young Master Harry," he approached them as they sat down at a table. "And who is this young lady?"

"I'm Hermione Granger," she said eagerly as she shook Mr. Fortescue's hand.

"Granger," he replied slowly as if testing the name on his lips. "I don't know the name. Are you the first in your family to go to Hogwarts?"

"I am. I can't wait."

Mr. Fortescue smiled. "Well, I'm sure Hogwarts will be happy to have you. And these two will be glad to keep you company. Well, what can I get for you? Ah, I know for these two, two chocolate frog sundaes," he said smiling at Ron and Harry who had plastered smiles on their faces, trying to think of a way to escape. "And for you Ms. Granger?"

Hermione beamed. "I'll have the Raspberry Sparkle."

Mr. Fortescue smiled. "Coming right up." Somehow Ron got the sense that Mr. Fortescue understood the scene better than he was letting on, as Ron could clearly sense amusement from the older man. Of course, he wasn't exactly trying to hide it.

"Have you two been here much?" Hermione asked as she looked around in wonder as floating trays delivered various orders to the small amount of patrons in the store.

"Yes," Harry began as he noted that Ron didn't seem keen on talking. "We come here all the time with our parents, and our friend Neville."

"Do you have any friends that aren't wizards?" Hermione asked, in a somewhat hopeful tone.

"No," Ron said quickly. "I've got a cousin on my mum's side who's an accountant, but we don't speak of him. But my dad has met lots of Muggles."

A slightly deflated look crossed Hermione's features "Oh, so you don't like Muggles?"

"No, of course, not," Harry said. "I've met plenty of muggles. My mother's muggle-born. Her whole family is nothing but Muggles."

"Oh, really?" Hermione brightened at that. "What do they of having a witch in the family?"

Harry shrugged. "My grandparents are awfully proud. My Aunt Petunia is a toadstool, but according to Mum, she was always like that. What about you, do you have any siblings?"

"None," Hermione said. "It's just me and my parents. They're dentists."

Ron was confused "Dentawhats?"

"Dentists. They tend to people's teeth. Apparently, it's quite demanding."

For all of Ron's imagination, he couldn't picture what a dentist did or why on earth it would've been necessary.

"What do Muggles do with their teeth that they need them fixed so much?" Ron asked. His curiosity was only halfhearted, but that didn't stop Hermione from giving a long, full-bodied answer to the many, many ailments involving Muggle teeth. Hermione had full-bodied answers for everything, apparently.

"So have the two of you gotten your wands yet?" Hermione asked, once she had finished her soliloquy on Muggle teeth.

"No," Ron said quickly. He knew he couldn't tell her about his wand, he didn't know if he could tell anyone, save for the people who already knew. Mr. Ollivander had seemed to think that was quite important.

"No," Harry chimed in. "I'll get mine later on next month," he supplied. "Have you ever held a wand?"

Hermione shook her head. "Not yet, but I can't wait. I wonder what kind of wand I should choose."

Ron eyed Hermione curiously, he couldn't have imagined growing up without magic. He'd been playing with his brother's wands his whole life, not to mention his parents and grandparents and the rest of his family.

What was it like to not have magic in your life? He was genuinely curious, but he dared not ask the question for fear of being in his seventh year before he got the full answer.

"Well, the wand sort of chooses you," Harry said slowly. "At least, that's what my mother and father always said. As soon as you hold it, you know, or it knows...or something." He looked at Ron as if wanting to confirm this, but Ron merely focused on his ice cream. He didn't want to discuss wands anymore. There had been enough of that for day, in his opinion.

Hermione was clearly intrigued. "It just knows? That wasn't anywhere in **_Hogwarts: A History."_**

" There's a lot that's not in _Hogwarts: A History_ ," Ron said automatically. He was quoting Duncan who had objected to Dumbledore's insistence that the book be a core component of Ron's curriculum.

Hermione's eyes narrowed slightly. "Have you read it?" she asked him, a slight edge in her voice. "It's apparently the most comprehensive book on Hogwarts ever written."

"Which means that a bunch of witches and wizards got together and decided to leave a lot of things out," Ron countered. "There are some things about magic you can only learn by doing it."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Apparently you can't learn how to use your eyes. We're going to spend eight years learning spells **_from books_**."

"And then we actually have **_to cast them_** ," Ron countered. "There's no spell, charm or curse that casts itself off the page."

Harry bit back a chuckle, but if he'd known that this was only the first of the many, many arguments he'd hear between Ron and Hermione, he might've ran out the door and not looked back.

He watched the back and forth between the two of them like a game of lawn tennis and he didn't know whether to laugh or scream.

On the one hand, it was highly entertaining. On the other, it was acutely annoying. Ron and Hermione argued the point for what seemed an hour (five minutes, in reality) before their ice cream tray arrived floating and interrupted their dispute.

For a while, all three were silent as they relished in the taste of their mid-morning treat. Ron was devising ways to get as far away from this girl as humanly possible.

They were still engrossed in their ice cream when and Harry and Ron felt the strong presence of Duncan approaching from behind.

Harry, for one, had never been completely at ease when Duncan was round. But he was Ron's protector/mentor/whatever else, so Harry had never voiced his opinions, he was pretty sure Duncan already knew anyway.

That was the worst part, Duncan seemed to know everything without anyone every saying a word. Harry wondered if Ron would be like that when they got older. He was suddenly glad they were already best mates. There wasn't much Ron didn't know about him to begin with.

Duncan appraised the situation he saw in front of him with searching eyes, Ron, Harry and a person unknown to him: a young girl, clearly magical, potentially highly proficient and definitely Muggleborn.

He could smell the Muggle on her. Muggle clothes, Muggle mannerisms, Muggle conversation, he held back a deep sigh. That lot was always particularly predictable.

Duncan bore no ill-will to Muggleborns. He thought their magical education should be to top priority to all Ministries in an effort to reduce the risk of exposure, but that was as far as it went.

He took no pains to associate himself with them, and he would insist on Ron doing the same. Muggle ideas, in his opinion, could often be dangerous, and Ron had enough dangers to worried about.

"Ron, Harry," Molly called as she came up behind Duncan. "It's time to go home. "Oh, hello. Who's your friend," Molly said with a smile, taking note of Hermione.

Ron groaned inwardly. Now they would never get rid of her. Molly was president of the Muggleborn Outreach Committee, a committee of highly influential witches and wizards who advocated integrating Muggleborns into Wizarding society earlier than when they were approaching their eleventh birthday. Hardline pureblood supremacists took offense to the committee's very existence, but Molly payed them absolutely no mind.

"I'm Hermione Granger," replied the beaming girl not waiting for Harry or Ron to introduce her.

"Granger," Molly tested the name on her tongue. It was a name unfamiliar to her, and she could tell that the girl was most likely Muggleborn. She grinned over at Ron and Harry, she was proud of them for making new friends.

"Well, it's a delight to meet you, Hermione," Molly said as she approached the table with a smile. "I'm Molly Weasley, Ron's mother."

Recognition flashed over Hermione's features. "It's a delight to meet you as well, Mrs. Weasley. I've read your column in _Witches Weekly_. It's my favorite."

Duncan had heard enough "Yes, well, we really ought to be going," he said quickly. "Ron has much to do."

Ron's shoulders straightened. That particular tone of Duncan's usually meant Ron was in trouble for something. For the life of him, however, Ron couldn't think of anything he'd done. He hadn't even made anything accidentally float the whole time they'd been in the Alley.

"Hermione," called an unfamiliar voice. "There you are."

"Mum," Hermione said acknowledging her mother as a woman that Ron immediately knew was Jean Elizabeth Granger, though he had never seen her before. He knew she was from Stratford-upon-Avon, that she was in her early 30s, that she was allergic to shellfish, that her husband's name was William and that she had a pet hamster named Beatrice.

The information hit him in such a rush that for a moment, Ron was completely still, unaware of anything that was going on. When he came out of it, he heard his mother's cheery voice.

"...fine, it's all settled then, we'd be happy to have you over for tea, this afternoon, Jean. We'll send a car for the two of you. Our house is sort of hard to find if you don't know the way." If Molly noticed the scowl on Duncan's face, she ignored it rather nonchalantly.

Ron bit back a groan. Now, they certainly would never get rid of her. All he wanted to do was go home and practice with his wand. Now he was having tea with this unbelievably annoying girl and her mother. He shot a glance at over at Harry, who was had a rather large smile on his face. Git.

 _I'm certainly not going over there for tea._

Ron heard Harry's voice. He'd know it anywhere, but he'd been looking at Harry who hadn't opened his mouth.

 _If I have to suffer through it, you should too_ , Ron thought. _You invited her here in the first place_.

Harry started in his seat, blinking several times. He'd heard Ron, only Ron sounded much closer than he ever did in his life. _Ron? Whoa, I can hear you inside my head._

 _What? You can?_ Ron turned wide eyes on his best mate who nodded in confirmation. _How?_

 _Haven't' the foggiest mate, seems like a question I should be asking you._

The two glanced at each other again, both bewildered and confused by the turn of events. Ron was used to being able to occasionally hear people thoughts but carrying out an entirely telepathic conversation was something quite new.

He sighed and shook his head, trying to make sense of everything. This whole day had been rather overwhelming, and it wasn't even lunchtime!

He longed to be back at home, racing brooms with Ginny, or maybe he could go and live with Bill. Maybe, just maybe he didn't have to be whatever it was everyone thought he had to be.

He'd barely even begun processing the fact that he was the Heir of Gryffindor. What did that even mean? He certainly didn't know. He wasn't sure if anyone did. These weren't the kind of things you learned from playing with your brother's wand or a toy broom.

This magic was Old Magic. It ran deeper than anybody truly knew, and although Ron was proud that he'd been chosen, he was also petrified.

What would Gryffindor think if he knew how frightened his heir actually was?

Ron didn't have time to ponder the question for long. His mother—just like his destiny, was beckoning him forward. There was nothing he could do but continue onward, despite not knowing what lay ahead.

 **7** **th**

In the excitement of the morning, Ron hadn't realized until much later that one of his visions had finally come to fruition. He was walking along the massive grounds of the Burrow's East Garden with Duncan when it finally struck him.

"Duncan," his voice eager and earnest as he looked up at his mentor. "I think a vision came true today."

The elder Seventh Son turned his sharp green eyes onto Ron's bright blue ones. "Really?" his voice higher than normal. Usually, nothing ruffled him, but Ron noted just how surprised he looked.

"Yes. The girl I met earlier. Hermione. When I met her, she was carrying a stack of books taller than her. It looked like a walking stack of books, like my vision."

Duncan stood still for a moment, letting the information wash over him. He knew better than most than that the visions a Seventh Son had when he was young were usually especially significant.

But it was beyond his realm of imagination to fathom what possible significance a Muggleborn girl who wasn't even in her first year could have on Ron's life. Ron was burdened with great purpose; what role could that girl possibly play it in it?

Duncan had sized her up within five seconds, and there was nothing about her other than an above average tenacity and an extreme desire to attain perfection that distinguished her from any other student in the fresh crop soon to arrive at Hogwarts.

Why, why would Ron envision her? Duncan could not be certain, however, he would certainly try to find out.

"Ron," he said slowly. "A vision coming true is an important thing. As I've told you, no one can help you with those. You must take your path as it unfurls before you. I might make a suggestion: journal the event closely. Remember everything you can about it. Chronicle it carefully. The slightest detail may prove to be the most important."

Ron fought the urge to roll his eyes. Duncan was always cryptic about visions. Bloody hell, Duncan was always cryptic about things. At this point, he just wanted someone to tell him what to do and how to do it.

"You should not wish things to be easy, Ron," Duncan said in a soft, disappointed tone. "Easy was cast out of the cards for you the moment you were born."

Ron didn't even fight the urge to roll his eyes. It was highly annoying to be in the constant company of someone who could read your thoughts.

"Ron, believe me, you would find it much more frustrating to be taught by someone who couldn't understand you," Duncan said with a smile. He wrapped a shoulder around the young boy. "Remember, I'll help you as much as I can. But there are some things only you can figure out. I wish I could help you more. I'm here as a guide, not a map."

Ron smiled ruefully. "Guide me to a map then, will you?"

Duncan chuckled. "I wish I could. But I've found that map is somewhere no one else can look for it: inside your own heart. You'll get there, _poikani_ , I swear it. Now, shall we begin?"

They had reached the most innermost part of the garden, it was secluded and surrounded by ivy and garland and greenery. Duncan Shielded a large circular area and walked a few feet away from Ron

He motioned for Ron to take out his new wand. Ron did so slowly. He gripped it and felt again as if it were talking to him, speaking a secret language that Ron seemed to know by instinct, though he had never heard it before.

And yet it made his arm feel heavy, like he almost couldn't hold his own limb's weight.

"I don't need to tell you to guard that wand with your life," Duncan said slowly. "But I'll tell you anyway. Guard that wand with your life, with your soul, with all the power and purpose you were born to. For it would take seven lifetimes to tell you all the blood that has been shed in search of that wand. It feels heavy, now, yes?"

Ron nodded in the affirmative. He wondered if he would ever be able to conceal anything from Duncan.

"That's because now you're thinking of it as a wand. Most witches and wizards always foolishly underachieve their capabilities because they think of their wands as wands and not as an extension of themselves. Your magic, Ron and the wand's magic are linked. Without a strong wizard to wield it, that wand would be useless. Become one with the wand, Ronald and it shall never betray you. Let's begin."

Ron nodded and gripped the wand even tighter.

"Now," Duncan said as he pulled out his own wand. "You won't begin dueling properly until your second year at Hogwarts, but I think in your case it's probably best to know something of it before you set foot on that hallowed ground. Besides I'm sure you've dueled a round or two with your brothers already, yes?"

Ron's cheeks colored slightly, and he merely shrugged in response. One simply did not grow up with five magical brothers and not duel a bit. Or a lot.

Duncan smiled. "Good, we'll build from there. Now don't grip the wand so tightly, think of it as of an extension as your arm, an extension of your hand, of yourself."

He walked a few yards away from Ron and stood opposite him.

Ron thought that thinking of the wand as extension of himself would be difficult, but it seemed that the wand knew what to do, it suddenly felt light in his fingers, suddenly as if it understood him. It was almost as if he could hear it inside his head. It was as if it way saying _Right then, we've got this._

Ron watched as Duncan assumed the dueling position and mirrored him as closely as possible. He didn't quite feel equal to the task of dueling his mentor who had probably been dueling his entire life.

Duncan didn't speak much about his past, despite being well-aware of Ron's immense curiosity and Ron always felt it would be very rude to ask in case it involved killing someone or something like that.

 _Ready yourself,_ the wand seemed to tell him he aimed his wand at his mentor.

Though Duncan whispered the incantation, Ron seemed to hear him as loud as a church bell " _Expelliarmus!"_

 _"_ _Protego,"_ Ron said as softly as he could.

The wand did not disappoint, a magnificent streak of blue erupted from its tip and it met the reddish glow of Duncan's own spell.

Ron found it hard to believe that much magic could exist inside of him and in that moment of doubt and he felt the wand go flying from his fingers.

Duncan immediately rescinded his spell.

"Well you did better than I had anticipated you would," he called loudly as he walked over to Ron. "If you held that spell, it would have truly been magnificent, truly. But, very good for a first try."

Ron wasn't sure what he had done or what he hadn't done, but suddenly he felt very small without his wand. He looked around for it in the grass, but it seemed to have vanished. Duncan made no move to help Ron find it, and when he turned his bright blue eyes on the older man in bewilderment, he only smiled in return.

"The wand knows it Master, Ronald. You cannot ever lose it, really. Hold out your hand, summon it to you."

Ron was at first doubtful. He heard tons of stories about wizards losing their wands in duels and was slightly disheartened by the fact that he'd lost his so quickly. He'd only had it for two hours.

But he followed Duncan's instructions to hold out his hand but when he opened his mouth to speak, Duncan shook his head and told him once again that the wand knew its master.

Ron understood and focused on calling the wand without saying a word. At first, nothing seemed to happen and he found himself pondering the rather ridiculous notion that the wand may have taken his magic from him.

He was just about to drop his hand when he heard a soft whirring sound coming from the east of him.

He looked up and there was the wand spinning in the air like a boomerang, and no sooner than he'd seen it coming than he found it again firmly in his grasp.

"Bloody hell," he said, a wicked grin crossing his features. He turned to look at Duncan who was also beaming.

"Well done, my boy. Gryffindor would've been proud of that. Shall we continue?" there was a wry glint in Duncan's eye that almost suggested a challenge.

Ron was not used to seeing Duncan the slightest bit at ease about anything. He found it quite a welcome sight. It made him eager to try, eager to learn, eager for everything (or so he thought) that was going to come his way.

The elder and the younger Seventh Son practiced more dueling techniques across the lawn and Duncan had to admit that Ron was learning quickly. They'd gone over basic protection spells and several wand techniques that would prove invaluable in dueling.

Of course, Ron didn't know how valuable or invaluable any of this would be. As Duncan' watched the delighted redhead's eyes light up every time he improved the swish of his arm or the stance of his posture, all he could do is wonder how long it would before that innocent, beaming gaze would last.

 **7th**

A few hours later, it was teatime and the Weasleys had long ago admonished Duncan that Ron was not to miss teatime with his family under any circumstances whatsoever.

Ron normally relished teatime with his family. It was one of those things where he could simply forget all about his destiny, all about the future, and all about the feeling of impending doom that had haunted him since before he could remember.

This day, however was a notable exception to the rule, as Ron knew that there would be guests invited and he would have to answer an innumerable amount of questions. At the very least, Harry would be coming as Molly had invited both he and Mrs. Potter to join them for tea. Ron was glad for it, he wouldn't have to suffer alone.

Lilly Potter, being a rather prominent Muggle-born, was also a member of the Muggleborn Outreach Committee, and Molly had thought it was a good idea to invite her. Thinking of Harry naturally made Ron remember their conversation or whatever it had been.

Before they reached the main house, Ron described the event of he and Harry communicating telepathically that morning at Fortescue's.

Duncan didn't seem surprised (although Ron could never work out if he practiced that nonchalant response). The question he posed to Ron, however quite the young boy rather off-guard.

"Do you trust Harry, Ron?"

Ron blinked several times at that. "Of course, he's my best mate."

Duncan gave a small smile. "Though you must always be careful of who to trust, I think it's very safe to say that in Mr. Potter you've found something rare: a true friend. Your heart knows that and your mind will follow. With those you are especially close, I do not think it will be uncommon for that form of communication. But I caution you: be careful whom you trust. For there are those that watch your back because they love you, and there are those that watch your back only to aim the knife."

Something in Duncan's tone made Ron pause, something told him that Duncan was speaking from experience. Duncan did not speak of his past, and his manner vetoed any inquiry on the subject. But something told Ron that Duncan not only believed what he just said, but that he knew it for a fact.

The words struck Ron in exactly the manner Duncan hoped they would. Betrayal, as he knew all too well, was inevitable. Of course the tricky thing about betrayal was one never knew what form it would take or what unsuspected corner it would creep out from.

Ron was still mulling over Duncan's words when they arrived back to the house. As it was a pleasant, sunny day, Molly had decreed that tea would take place on the gazebo in the main garden.

Duncan, never one to take tea with the family, asked Arthur if he could make use of his library for the time being, and promptly excused himself once he received permission.

Jean and Hermione Granger arrived promptly, and as Ron expected, Hermione was carrying a book with her. But at least, it was only one.

Ron longed for a moment alone with Harry so he could tell him all that had happened with the new wand and what Duncan had told him, but he knew his mother wouldn't hear of him leaving tea early under any circumstances.

He excused himself for a moment only to return his wand to his room. Duncan had put a powerful Locking Charm on the wand's case so that it could only be opened by himself and Ron.

He locked the wand in his case and put it on his dresser. He looked out the window down at the garden and watched his family prepare for tea.

He was getting ready to head out of the house to join them when something caught his eye. For a microsecond, he almost thought that there was someone at the eastern edge of the garden. But when he blinked, there was nothing.

Dismissing it as a trick of the light, he turned away and rejoined the tea party.

 **7th**

Jean and Hermione Granger arrived promptly, and as Ron expected, Hermione was carrying a book with her. But at least, it was only one.

Hermione looked around in wonder as everything from the tea set to the tray of biscuits moved seamlessly across the gazebo of its own accord. She knew all that magic could do, but she had never been in a place that seemed absolutely brimming with it. Not even Diagon Alley with all its wonders had enchanted her so.

She watched as the house-elves attended to Weasleys with ease and grace and there something in her soul that somehow sensed that she was where (or at least, near) where she was meant to be.

This was what had been missing in her life, the magic that flowed through the very air of the Weasley's somehow lifted her spirits and made her feel an ease that she'd never known. All she knew really, was that she never wanted to leave.

She sat quietly in awe of everything around her, taking it all in and hoping that for the first time in her life, she would be a part of something that no one could take away from her.

Molly and Lily spoke to Jean about how she felt about having a witch in the family as Arthur chatted with Charlie and Percy about Ministry affairs. He felt it pertinent to talk to all his sons about the inner workings of Magical Government.

Ginny, happy to have another girl to speak to, engrossed Hermione in conversation about her upcoming arrival at Hogwarts and how peeved Ginny was to have to wait another year.

Hermione decided that she liked Ginny immediately. Ginny, having spent the least amount of time around Muggle of anyone in her family, was eager to ask Hermione questions.

Ron was merely happy someone else was keeping Hermione distracted. As he and Harry got ready to play a round of Wizard's Chess, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

For some reason, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. Then again, he shouldn't have been surprised. There were Aurors everywhere. Of course, they had long been taught to make themselves invisible so Ron hardly noticed them anymore.

Still, there was a feeling he couldn't quite name and he couldn't quite shake. He'd long been taught to trust his instincts and he looked around the yard curiously.

"What is it?" Harry asked as he looked Ron nervously.

Ron shook his head. "I don't know…it's something."

But as he looked out in the yard, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. He decided not to worry about it and focus on his chess game with Harry.

The game caught Hermione's eye and she moved closer to observe.

"Wizards' Chess?" she asked with a smile. "I've never seen it before."

Harry nodded. "Ron and I play all the time."

"And he's never beat me," Ron chimed in with a smile.

"Quite humble, aren't you?" Hermione said with an eyeroll.

Ron, immediately offended, wasn't about to back down.

"All right. Let's you and I have a go after Harry, yeah?"

"It would be my pleasure," Hermione said with her jaw set in determination. This Ron had to be the most infuriating person she'd ever met in her life. So what if he was a Seventh Son and she wanted to know everything know about him?

So what if her father always trounced her rather soundly at chess? She was quite certain she could beat Ronald Weasley.

Two rematches later found Hermione seething with silent rage. Her pieces had been obstinate, not taking her suggestions and doing the opposite of everything she recommended. There had been no way for her to win. A point she expressed again and again as tea ended.

Ron, in a renewal of well-breeding, informed her not to be too hard on herself as he could tell that not winning really, truly bothered her.

"Don't worry on it," he told her with a smile. "My pieces just trust me. I've been playing with them for years. It takes a while for anyone."

Hermione smiled at that. "Right then. Well, tomorrow I'm going back to the Alley and getting my own set. Next time, I'll get you."

Ron laughed at that. "I wouldn't bet it on it, Granger. I wouldn't bet on it."

Harry laughed too, and something told him that despite Ron's best efforts, they would not be getting rid of Hermione Granger anytime soon.

The whole party prepared to go into the house and say their goodbyes. Hermione fell in step besides Ron. "Can I ask you something?" she said in a rather delicate whisper.

Ron hesitated, but nodded. He didn't know if he could handle anymore questions from this girl.

"Do…do you want to be…you know, a Seventh Son?"

Ron blinked. He couldn't recall anyone ever asking him that. "I don't really think I have much choice," he said finally.

Hermione shook her head. "There's always a choice. Or at least, there always should be. You could walk away, you know if you wanted to?"

"Maybe," Ron said slowly. "But I don't think it's that simple."

"Hermione, time to go," called Jean Granger.

"I'll see you two at school," Hermione said with a wave. "I can't wait."

And she was off, probably to read up on everything she could about Wizard's Chess.

 _I can,_ Ron thought to himself as he headed up to his room after saying goodbye to Harry and Mrs. Potter.

Whatever he experienced now, it was only going to get worse at Hogwarts. People would ask him questions, people would wonder about him. If he was good enough, what he would accomplish. If word got out about his wand, the whole Magical World would be in hysterics.

He wondered about Hermione's words as he looked over the amount of homework Duncan had left for him. Did he? Did he have a choice?

The answer, like all the other answers in his life, was not coming that night. Or, as it appeared, any night in the near future.


End file.
